'Oh.'
'And the Taylors left by car for Luton airport at 6.30 yesterday morning. They're spending a week on a package tour in the Channel Islands. So the neighbours say.'
'Oh.'
'And,' continued Morse, 'we're still trying to find out who killed Baines, remember?'
'That's why you've asked the Caernarfon police to pick him up?'
'Yep. And we'd better not keep him waiting too long. It's about four and a half hours — non-stop. So we'll allow five. We might want to give the car a little rest on the way.'
Outside a pub, thought Lewis, as he pulled on his overcoat. But Lewis thought wrong.
The traffic this Sunday morning was light and the police car made its way quickly up through Brackley and thence to Towcester where it turned left on to the A5. Neither man seemed particularly anxious to sustain much conversation, and a tacit silence soon prevailed between them, as if they waited tensely for the final wicket to fall in a test match. The traffic decelerated to a paralytic crawl at road works in Wellington, and suddenly Morse switched on full headlights and the blue roof-flasher, and wailing like a dalek in distress the car swept past the stationary column of cars and soon was speeding merrily along once more out on the open road. Morse turned to Lewis and winked almost happily.
Along the Shrewsbury ring-road, Lewis ventured a conversational gambit. 'Bit of luck about this Miss Baker, wasn't it?'
'Ye-es.' Lewis looked at the inspector curiously. 'Nice bit of stuff, sir?'
'She's a prick-teaser.'
'Oh.'
They drove on through Betws-y-coed: Caernarfon 25 miles.
'The real trouble,' said Morse suddenly, 'was that I thought she was dead.'
'And now you think she's still alive?'
'I very much hope so,' said Morse, with unwonted earnestness in his voice. 'I very much hope so.'
At five minutes to three they came to the outskirts of Caernarfon, where ignoring the sign directing traffic to the city centre Morse turned left on to the main Pwllheli Road.
'You know your way around here then, sir?'
'Not too well. But we're going to pay a brief visit before we meet Acum.' He drove south to the village of Bont-Newydd, turned left off the main road and stopped outside a house with the front door painted Cambridge blue.
'Wait here a minute.'
Lewis watched him as he walked up the narrow front path and knocked on the door; and knocked again. Clearly there was no one at home. But then of course David Acum wouldn't be there; he was three miles away, detained for questioning on the instructions of the Thames Valley Police. Morse came back to the car and got in. His face seemed inexplicably grave.
'No one in, sir?'
Morse appeared not to hear. He kept looking around him, occasionally glancing up into the driving mirror. But the quiet street lay preternaturally still in the sunny autumn afternoon.
'Shan't we be a bit late for Acum, sir?'
'Acum?' The inspector suddenly woke from his waking dreams. 'Don't worry about Acum. He'll be all right.'
'How long do you plan to wait here?'
'How the hell do I know!' snapped Morse.
'Well, if we're going to wait, I think I'll just—' He opened the nearside door and began to unfasten his safety-belt.
'Stay where you are.'There was a note of harsh authority in the voice, and Lewis shrugged his shoulders and closed the door again.
'If we're waiting for Mrs. Acum, don't you think she may have gone with him?'
Morse shook his head. 'I don't think so.'
The time ticked on inexorably, and it was Morse who finally broke the silence. 'Go and knock again, Lewis.'
But Lewis was no more successful than Morse had been; and he returned to the car and slammed the door with some impatience. It was already half-past three.
'We'll give her another quarter of an hour,' said Morse.
'But why are we waiting for her, sir? What's she got to do with it all? We hardly know anything about her, do we?'
Morse turned his light-grey eyes upon his sergeant and spoke with an almost fierce simplicity. That's where you're wrong, Lewis. We know more about her — far more about her — than about anyone else in the whole case. You see, the woman living here with David Acum is not his real wife at all — she's the person we've been looking for from the very beginning.' He paused and let his words sink in. 'Yes, Lewis. The woman who's been living here for the past two years as Acum's wife is not his wife at all—she's Valerie Taylor.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
'Now listen, you young limb,' whispered Sikes. 'Go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street doon unfasten it, and let us in.
(Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist)
LEWIS'S MOUTH GAPED in flabbergasted disbelief as this astonishing intelligence partially percolated through his consciousness. 'You can't mean. .'
'But I do mean. I mean exactly what I say. And that's why we're sitting here waiting, Lewis. We're waiting for Valerie Taylor to come home at last'
For the moment Lewis was quite incapable of any more intelligent comment than a half-formed whistle. 'Phew!'
'Worth waiting another few minutes for, isn't she? After all this time?'
Gradually the implications of what the inspector had just told him began to register more significantly in Lewis's mind. It meant. . it meant. . But his mental processes seemed now to be anaesthetized, and he gave up the unequal struggle. 'Don't you think you ought to put me in the picture, sir?'
'Where do you want me to start?' asked Morse, in a slightly brisker tone.
'Well, first of all you'd better tell me what's happened to the real Mrs. Acum.'
'Listen, Lewis. In this case you've been right more often than I have. I've made some pretty stupid blunders — as you know. But at last we're getting near the truth, I think. You ask me what's happened to the real Mrs. Acum. Well, I don't know for certain. But let me tell you what I think may have happened. I've hardly got a shred of evidence for it, but as I see things it must have happened something like this.
'What do we know about Mrs. Acum? A bit prim and proper, perhaps. She's got a slim, boyish-looking figure, and long shoulder-length blonde hair. Not unattractive, maybe, in an unusual sort of way, but no doubt very self-conscious about the blotch of ugly spots all over her face. Then think about Valerie. She's a real honey, by all accounts. A nubile young wench, with a sort of animal sexuality about her that proves fatally attractive to the opposite sex — the men and the boys alike. Now just put yourself in Acum's place. He finds Valerie in his French class, and he begins to fancy her. He thinks she may have a bit of ability, but neither the incentive nor the inclination to make anything of it. Well, from whatever motives, he talks to her privately and suggests some extra tuition. Now let's try to imagine what might have happened. Let's say Mrs. Acum has joined a Wednesday sewing class at Headington Tech. — I know, Lewis, but don't interrupt: it doesn't matter about the details. Where was I? Yes. Acum's free then on Wednesday evenings, and we'll say that he invites Valerie round to his house. But one night in March the evening class is cancelled — let's say the teacher's got flu — and Mrs. Acum arrives home unexpectedly early, about a quarter to eight, and she finds them both in bed together. It's a dreadful humiliation for her, and she decides that their marriage is finished. Not that she necessarily wants to ruin Acum's career. She may feel she's to blame in some way: perhaps she doesn't enjoy sex; perhaps she can't have any children — I don't know. Anyway, as I say, it's finished between them. They continue to live together, but they sleep in different rooms and hardly speak to each other. And however hard she tries, she just can't bring herself to forgive him. So they agree to separate when the summer term is over, and Acum knows it will be better for both of them if he gets a new post. Whether he told Phillipson the truth or not, doesn't really matter. Perhaps he didn't tell him anything when he first handed in his resignation; but he may well have had to say something when Valerie tells him that she's expecting a baby and that he's almost certainly the father. So, as you yourself said this morning, Lewis, they all decide to put their heads together. Valerie, Acum, Phillipson and Mrs. Taylor — I don't know about George. They arrange the clinic in London and fix up the house in North Wales here, where Valerie comes immediately after the abortion, and where Acum will join her just as soon as the school term ends. And Valerie arrives and acts the dutiful little wife, decorating the place and getting things straight and tidy; and she's still here. Where the real Mrs. Acum is, I don't know; but we should be able to find out easily enough. If you want me to make a guess, I'd say she's living with her mother, in a little village somewhere near Exeter.'
For several minutes Lewis sat motionless within the quiet car, until aroused at length by the very silence he took a yellow duster from the glove compartment and wiped the steamy windows. Morse's imaginative reconstruction of events seemed curiously convincing, and several times during the course of it Lewis's head had nodded an almost involuntary agreement.